by Jean, Rima
Guy’s face darkened. “Marguerite, have you been drinking much tonight?” There was a note of familiarity in his voice that led Zayn to believe he and Marguerite knew each other well.
“You can’t bully me, Guy, and you know it,” Marguerite snapped, waving a stern finger at his nose. “I will not have you debauching a nobleman’s daughter, Syrian or otherwise. Leave Elisha alone, and seek your amusement elsewhere.” She brushed past him and stomped off, ignoring his scowl. He watched her leave and seemed to debate something before reluctantly walking back to the Great Hall.
Zayn exhaled as he disappeared, then slunk after Marguerite. She heard the lady’s voice before she saw her, standing in a courtyard garden and reprimanding a red-faced Elisha. She caught shreds of the one-sided conversation: “…nothing but trouble, and you’d do well to stay away from him…ruin your father’s good reputation…silly fancy…”
When Marguerite returned to the Great Hall, Zayn was speaking innocently with Judith. Zayn looked at Marguerite with nothing short of awe as the fiery-haired young woman said to her, “Put your mind at ease, Sara. It’s been taken care of.”
That night, as Zayn drifted to sleep, she was still smiling.
Chapter Eleven
Worry not about Bashar. His business has nothing to do with yours.
Zayn watched the candle’s flame consume the note until it was nothing but ash. How could Junaid be so flippant about Bashar’s presence at the palace? He had, in all likelihood, tried to kill her. Didn’t she have enough to worry about as it was? With a frustrated grunt, she rose from the table and turned back to dressing herself. She was running late, and Marguerite would not be pleased.
As she fiddled with the laces of her gown, she thought again of Lady Marguerite scolding Guy de Molay as though he was nothing but an unruly boy caught stealing sweetmeats. A grin spread across her face as one did every time she remembered Marguerite descending upon Guy and Elisha like an angry goddess of war. Zayn’s respect and admiration for the young Frankish noblewoman had increased significantly after witnessing her strength of character. Here she was, a young woman with supernatural powers and Assassin abilities, and she’d been bested by a wisp of a Frankish girl. I could learn a thing or two from Marguerite.
Her gown was poorly laced and her veil improperly pinned, but it would have to do. She rushed from the chamber, hurrying down the empty halls of the palace. Save for the occasional guard or servant, the High Court had left the palace for Temple Mount, where the Templars’ headquarters, the Temple of Solomon, was located. Five pavilions were pitched for the tournament held on the second day of the king’s birthday feast. The crowds surrounding the tournament grounds were immense, as people of every class and creed had come to witness the spectacle, cramming themselves within the gates. Even Zayn had to admit she was excited—she wanted to watch the best of Baldwin’s knights in combat.
“I thought you’d never come,” Marguerite said as Zayn climbed into the gallery and took her seat below Marguerite. Zayn looked across the arena, at the guards, the heralds with their trumpets, the knights in their respective tents. The air was charged with the collective energy of the crowd and the combatants. King Baldwin and Princess Sibylla sat in a high, lavishly decorated gallery on the other side of the field, surrounded by their various pages and attendants and guards. The king’s barons, lords, and their ladies sat in a gallery a step down from the king’s.
Marguerite had been named the Queen of Love and Beauty for the tournament this year, which meant she would crown the victor. She sat on her throne in a separate gallery, surrounded by “the most beautiful maidens in the Kingdom,” who were all daughters of the most powerful Frankish families in Outremer, such as Ibelin, Lusignan, Courtenay, and Milly. They all had the beauty of youth, with rosy, flawless skin, glossy hair, and doe eyes. They wore exquisitely embroidered gowns of pink and peach shades with garlands of flowers on their heads, and they sat in line like a delectable array of desserts. Marguerite was not the prettiest of the maidens, but to Zayn’s eyes she stood out like a beacon, radiating strength and warmth. Of her ladies-in-waiting, Marguerite had asked only Zayn to sit with her at the tournament, and so Zayn sat at her lady’s knee, obscured by the beauties seated before her.
The tournament began with all the royal pomp and circumstance expected, and the heralds shouted the rules of the game: The five best knights would accept challenges from all who came forth. A challenger may choose which champion knight to fight by tapping that knight’s shield with a lance, and the challenger may also choose the manner in which to fight him—a tap from the blunt end of a lance indicated a fight with blunted weapons, whereas a tap with the point of a lance indicated a fight with sharp weapons. When the knights had broken five lances, the Queen of Love and Beauty would crown the victor.
With a blast of trumpets, the heralds retreated, the gates opened, and the first five challengers rode slowly into the arena, toward the champion knights’ pavilions. Zayn leaned forward, her hands clasped in her lap and her breath bated in anticipation. There was no mistaking the champion knight at the first pavilion, with his distinctive coat of arms—it was Guy de Molay. Zayn was not surprised; rather, she prayed to see him dumped rudely from his horse. If only I could don some armor and do it myself. She had to admit, however, that the Franks certainly knew how to put on a good show. In all their armored glory, the knights glittered under the Eastern sun. Their individual heraldic emblems marked their helmets, pennons, and shields, as well as their destriers’ coverings.
Each knight approached his chosen champion and tapped his shield; all were with blunt ends, much to the disappointment of the crowd. There would be no blood this time. The champions mounted their warhorses and faced their challengers at the opposite end of the arena. Zayn saw Guy flash a smirk at one of the other champions before his face disappeared behind the ventail of his coif. God, I hate him. They lowered their lances and at the sound of the trumpets, kicked their horses into full gallops and charged their opponents.
Crack! Lances were broken, and in several puffs of dirt, all five challengers found themselves rolling on the ground, much to their embarrassment. The crowd laughed and cheered and booed; this tournament was not going to be very entertaining if the champions had no real competition. Guy de Molay handed his unbroken lance to his squire, removed his helmet, and yawned. Zayn looked away and grit her teeth. Give me a lance, dammit, and I’ll show him.
The second and third rounds of challengers were a bit better at meeting the champions, but not by much. Guy hadn’t even swerved in his saddle, and Zayn’s agitation grew by the second. Marguerite leaned down to her and whispered, “If Guy de Molay wins this tournament, I will be sick.”
Zayn whispered back, “Promise you will be sick down the front of his surcoat,” and they giggled into their hands.
As the fourth round ended, it was looking very much like Guy would be the victor, since he had unseated three challengers and broken only one lance. Dejected, Zayn wondered idly how Guy would feel about being crowned by Marguerite, especially after she had unmanned him last night. Enjoy your moments of glory while you can, Guy de Molay. It all comes to an end very soon.
The fifth and final round of challengers rode through the gates, and a collective murmur escaped the crowd. One of the challengers was an unmarked knight, with no colors or emblems to identify him, and only one word engraved on his shield: Redemptus. Zayn touched Marguerite’s sleeve with her fingertips. “My lady, what does it mean?”
Marguerite’s brow was furrowed in thought. “It means ‘ransomed’ in Latin. Who is he, I wonder?”
Others wondered, too, as whispers were passed from lips to ear throughout the galleries, and King Baldwin himself leaned forward in interest. Not only did this strange knight not wear any colors save for his black mantle, but he wore a great helm with a plate that covered his face entirely, so his personage could not be ascertained. The mystery of the unmarked knight swelled into a scandal when he mounted the platform
to Robert de Milly’s pavilion and forcefully struck the knight’s shield with the sharp end of his lance. The crash of lance against shield echoed over the arena, and for a moment there was a shocked silence. Robert de Milly was another Templar, fair-haired and bearded, and though he was not as tall as Guy, he was thicker and stronger.
Robert was clearly taken aback by the aggressiveness of the challenger’s blow, and Zayn could see the storm brewing on his face.
Marguerite grinned. “I like him already.”
“I’ll like him even more if he wins,” Zayn muttered, her eyes fixed on Ransomed as he reined his horse back off the platform and trotted to the end of the arena. He rode easily and with the grace of an accomplished rider, even though he was encased in metal. As he waited for Robert, he turned toward the gallery of young beauties and inclined his helmeted head. He could not have evoked a giddier response than if he’d blown a kiss—the ladies tittered behind their hands, blushed, lowered their eyes. Marguerite and Zayn exchanged glances, their eyebrows raised and smiles tugging at their lips.
Robert de Milly descended quickly to meet his challenger, the redness of his face apparent even behind his helmet. The two knights waited at opposite ends of the arena, mounted and facing each other with nothing and no one between them, their lances tucked under their arms and their shields held before them, their horses snorting and pawing the ground restlessly. The signal sounded, and Robert began to charge with a roar. Ransomed rushed forward as well, and the two knights clashed in a cloud of dust. Robert’s horse reared up, and the heavy knight fell with an undignified plop! on his back.
The crowd cheered their new hero, and as Robert, his face now purple, spat angry curses in the unknown knight’s direction, Ransomed mounted the platform and tapped the shield of the next champion with the tip of his lance. The second knight’s fate at the hands of Ransomed was the same as Robert de Milly’s, as was the third knight’s, and the fourth… Guy de Molay was the only champion left, and as Ransomed approached his pavilion, Guy leaned casually against his shield, his face composed but watchful. Ransomed lowered the point of his lance and tapped Guy’s shield gently.
Guy smiled. Zayn remembered that smile, filled with promises of pain. “Mysterious knight, you’ve fought well. But now your luck ends,” said Guy.
Ransomed tilted his head. “We shall see,” was all he said, his voice muffled by the helm. Then he rode back to his spot and turned, waiting. By now, everyone had moved to the very edge of their seats. The men who had been slumped were straight, and all the ladies wrung their hands, their eyes lit on this new champion, this “ransomed” knight. Zayn and Marguerite were not immune to the fever—Zayn openly gnawed her lip, and Marguerite ground her teeth.
Guy was slow in readying himself for the joust, purposefully making his opponent wait. Nonetheless, it didn’t escape Zayn that he asked for a fresh mount, as well as a new lance and shield. When he finally faced Ransomed, not a sound could be heard, not even the wind dared to blow. Before a single spectator could inhale sharply, the knights had charged and struck each other with such force that the earth itself seemed to tremble. Ransomed reeled, and for a heart-stopping moment it looked as though he would fall. His horse reared back at the blow, but Ransomed was a skilled horseman, and he brought the steed down and around with careful ease. Guy’s lance had shattered on his opponent’s shield, and so the two knights retreated to their respective ends for their second attempt.
“I can’t stand this!” Marguerite whispered, the skirt of her gown bunched up in her fists. Zayn’s heart pumped as though she herself were jousting Guy, and she could not draw her eyes from the field.
With fresh lances in their grips, the two knights charged again, exploded against each other again in a spark of metal. This time, Ransomed deflected the blow, but Guy’s lance struck his opponent’s helmet. Once again Ransomed wavered in his saddle but did not fall. The crowd booed, then began chanting something Zayn could not hear.
“What’s happening?” Zayn asked breathlessly.
“Guy’s lost,” Marguerite said, jumping a bit in her seat. “Striking your opponent anywhere but the chest results in disqualification. Guy aimed for the head on purpose, so the crowd is crying foul.”
Zayn watched as Guy dismounted angrily and drew his sword, waving it menacingly at Ransomed. The heralds had to stop him from approaching Ransomed, and Zayn shook her head. It was true to Guy de Molay’s character, she thought, that he would risk losing the tournament in order to truly hurt his opponent. Cheers began to emerge from the crowd as the heralds announced the winner: “The Ransomed Knight!”
The victor, still helmed, approached the king’s gallery and bowed. From the word that traveled around the arena, Ransomed had requested to reveal his identity only upon being crowned. King Baldwin, thoroughly amused by the situation, consented to this unusual request. He had wanted a good show, and this unknown knight had granted a good show—one that had yet to end.
So Ransomed rode across the arena to Marguerite’s gallery, and Zayn saw her swallow nervously before standing. The unmarked knight bowed quietly before her, the face plate of his helmet badly dented where Guy’s lance had struck it. In a strong but slightly tremulous voice, Marguerite said, “Sir Ransomed Knight, it is my honor and privilege to crown you victor of King Baldwin’s tournament.” She hesitated a bit, then took the crown into her hands. “Pray, remove your helmet so that I may bestow you with your prize.”
At these words, Ransomed reached up with his mailed hands and slowly pried the damaged helm from his head. As he unfastened and pulled down his mail coif, golden curls, soaked with sweat to a deep bronze, tumbled around a face that smiled despite a bloody nose. Two clear blue eyes crinkled with good humor, and Marguerite gasped. “Earic!”
He laughed. The world tilted, and Zayn swayed, nearly falling from her seat.
Earic. Earic Goodwin.
Fair Boy.
…
Hunting here was good.
Dense forest led up into the terraced mountains of Ansariye. The desert landscape of eastern Syria changed as it crept westward, and vines, poppies, and anemones joined the olive trees that peppered the horizon tirelessly. The trees thickened and lengthened, the grass carpeted the ground. Hunting here was good, very good, and far too dangerous for the two foolhardy youths trekking deeper into the woods, armed with nothing but longbows and bread knives. They had killed two small hares, one by each of them, and were feeling particularly bold that morning.
“Lions have been killed in this area, you know,” twelve-year-old Zayn whispered over her shoulder to Fair Boy, furtively checking to see if there was fear in his eyes. To her disappointment, there was none.
“We have monstrous wolves where I come from,” Earic whispered back with a sly glance.
“We have wolves here, too.”
“Oh, not like ours. I’ve seen your wolves—scrawny, cowardly things.”
“They are not!” She stopped and glared at him.
“Shhh.” He held a finger to his lips. “You’ll frighten our prey.”
Zayn bit her lip and looked away. He was teasing her. Were they not hunting, she would shove him and laugh, provoke him into a game of wrestling. She was curious to test her strength against this strong boy. She lowered her voice. “Tell me about this place you are from, then, with the monstrous wolves.”
He smiled. “Nottinghamshire, in England.”
She adjusted the strap of her quiver. “Is that where the Saxons live?”
Surprised, Earic nodded. “Yes… What’s left of them. But we call ourselves English.” In response to her puzzled expression, he said, “It’s complicated. You Saracens call all of us ‘Franks,’ but we are so many different peoples. I am English, descended of English nobility.”
“I see. Forgive me if I don’t curtsy.” Zayn flashed a smile.
He grinned. “Lord de Molay’s knights are not all Franks. Some are Norman or Provençal, others are from Lorraine, Auvergne, and Burgundy.”
Zayn shrugged. “Ah, what does it matter? They’re all the same. They all want to kill me.”
“But they have to catch you first,” he replied with a laugh. “And they can’t, can they?”
“I guess not.” She couldn’t help but smile until her face ached when she was around this boy, she realized.
“Would you care to know a secret?” he asked, lowering his voice and stepping closer to her.
She stiffened, aware of his nearness, his scent, his breath on her ear. “What is it?” she whispered back.
“They can’t catch me, either.” He licked his lips. “You and I… I think we have much in common.”
She wanted to listen to his words, but was distracted by his proximity. Without meaning to, she looked at his mouth as he spoke, watching his pink, chapped lips. “Yes?” she heard herself say.
“Have you…have you ever played with fire?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
She felt as though she were falling. Suddenly, her mouth was on his, and heaven help her, he was kissing her back, leaning into her. Abruptly aware of what she was doing, she jerked away, horrified.
Earic gazed back at her, his eyes twinkling. He opened his mouth to say something—jaunty, by the looks of him—but stopped. Something in the brush had caught his eye, and he froze. Zayn followed his stare into the bramble below and saw the partridges, plump and gray. As the young hunters were slowly pulling arrows from their quivers, the partridges flushed from the bushes with a furious flapping of wings. Before Zayn and Earic could fully draw their bows, a mottled saker, a great bird of prey, swept down from the sky and struck the fattest partridge, bearing it down to the ground.
There are other hunters here.
Earic grabbed Zayn’s shoulder, his face ashen. “Run!” he cried.